Metronymic, of sorts.

Sardines packed in six cars
Three hundred commoners, we.
Jostling, almost jousting,
Protecting an elbow, a knee.
Sqeezing in in-between spaces,
Contortionists for a day.
Balancing in vestibules,
On our stinky, weary, way.
A headphone creates illusory space
Or serves as a prop
When we wish to eavesdrop.
Friends are judged,
Stories are spun,
Gossip dispensed,
Especially in Coach Number One.
We fit all possible types:
The geek, the muse, the college prude;
The hair-swishing bimbette, the sporty dude.
A hipster sways, a lech stares;
In one corner, a harried mum glares
At a privacy-deprived randy pair.
We peek, we prod, we poke, we pry
We're the Delhi Metro,
You, you hapless commuter, and I.